The Waiting Isn't The Hardest Part
by starrysummernights
Summary: Part 6 of The Illusion of Control series. Expecting a baby should be a joyous event in an Omega's life. It's what all the books, websites, and talk shows bleat about. It's the crowning moment of glory in any Omega's life. John's just ready for it to be over. Omegaverse and Mpreg. You've been warned.
1. And So It Begins

**Well, this is it. This is my Omegaverse Mpreg fic- the fic I never thought I'd write...but I'm having the time of my life doing it. Please let me know how you like the first chapter, and if you have any prompts feel free to let me know. And if you want to remain anon, I'll understand :D**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>John trudges up the stairs, feeling unbelievably weary. It's as if his limbs have lead weights attached to them, dragging him down and making each step a struggle. The fourteen steps up to 221B, which he generally jogs up without a problem, are insurmountable. He may as well be climbing Mount Everest.<p>

He feels numb. In shock. The events of the previous hour are still too difficult to contemplate.

* * *

><p>"Congratulations, daddy!" The doctor announced, sailing into the bland examination room where she'd left John after collecting his blood sample, leaving him to his anxious, tortured thoughts for an interminable amount of time. There had been nothing to distract him either. The walls were covered in diagrams of Omegas, their reproductive system, and the development of the fetus in various stages. The one table in the room, instead of harboring magazines, boasted a variety of pamphlets on various prenatal Omega care topics. John had stared into the distance, mentally making a list of all the chores that needed doing back at the flat and stoically not glancing at the "Your Baby and You" diagram.<p>

The doctor brandished a piece of paper with a wide grin, eyes excited and sparkling. John's eyes followed the paper, a snake before a charmer, morbidly entranced.

"It's…so you mean…I'm-?"He gestured wordlessly at the innocent slip of paper, unable to finish the question. The words were stuck in his throat, choking him, and he couldn't say them. The doctor, though, knew what he meant. She nodded, hurrying over to John and pressing the paper into his hands.

"You are! Here it is, in black and white. You're definitely pregnant, Mr. Watson. Not that far along, either. You'll need to schedule an exam to determine just _how far_ along, of course. You can do that when you check out at the front desk. According to these readings, you're only a few weeks but you should notice your scent has already started changing…"

John tuned her out, not bothering to listen to the redundant prattling about the changes to his body he could expect in the coming weeks. He was a doctor and an informed Omega. He already knew it. Besides, he gave the same speech to his own patients on a weekly basis. Instead, he focused on the piece of paper in his hands, detailing his test results.

His _pregnancy_ test results.

For a few horrible seconds, John thought he was going to be sick right there in the examination room.

"- you're a high risk pregnancy, of course. An Omega your age is generally discouraged from reproducing." The doctor said, rather judgmentally John thought and he straightened his spine.

"I was on birth control." He murmured, clenching his jaw, hating that he even felt the need to defend himself. The doctor chuckled.

"I'm sure you were, dear. Your Alpha must be very proud of himself, eh? They always are when it comes to things like this."

John wanted to throttle her.

He hopped down from the table onto wobbly, shaky legs and the doctor shook his hand, congratulating him again, saying she looked forward to seeing him soon. John couldn't express similar sentiments.

* * *

><p>Paying his bill and leaving the surgery was a blur. So was the walk back to the flat, his test results veritably burning a hole in his pocket the whole way. He was surprised he made it all the way back to the flat and wasn't picked up by one of Mycroft's cars.<p>

Meddlesome bastard probably already knew John's results. No doubt the doctor had been under orders and faxed them over straightaway after John left. So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.

John hadn't allowed Sherlock to go with him- despite the Alpha sulking- unable to bear the idea of Sherlock being there for his test. Hovering in the background. Pretending everything was normal and fine when it _wasn't_.

John pauses outside the door to the sitting room. Inside, he hears Sherlock pacing, his tread quick and frantic. It's a sign of how worried he is that he hadn't seen John come in downstairs. John's surprised Sherlock wasn't sitting at the window waiting for him to arrive, like an overexcited house pet.

As soon as John opens the door, Sherlock spins around. His pale eyes fix unwaveringly on John.

He already knows.

John can tell he knows. He can probably read it in the slump of John's shoulders. The tight set of his jaw. The pursing of his lips. The way he keeps flexing his hands at his sides, idly playing with his keys. Uncomfortable being in this position and anxious over everything else.

John watches Sherlock's throat bob as he swallows, his hands coming up to plant themselves on his hips as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. Even though he already knows, Sherlock has to ask anyway.

"Well?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock blinks, eyebrows snapping together. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I am." John clarifies, still not wanting to say the word out loud- as if that will keep it from being any less real- and shrugs out of his jacket. He turns to hang it over the door and by the time he turns back, in less than five seconds, finds that Sherlock has fallen to pieces.

He's pacing again, movements agitated and twitchy, gripping his hair with one hand, harshly tugging on his curls. His nostrils flare with deep, unstable breaths, chest rising and falling rapidly, close to hyperventilating. His lips press together so tightly they're white.

"Yes. _Yes_, you're…" Sherlock gestures at John's body and his face does a complicated expression before he turns away, seizing his laptop and opening it. "We're nowhere near ready." His voice is uncharacteristically panicked. "I thought my lists would be good enough but they're not. Nowhere _near_ good enough. And then there's you- why didn't you take a cab?" He whirls around on John, expression contorting into a snarl. "You shouldn't be walking around London when you're…you're…"

"I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own-" John starts angrily, spoiling for a row, but Sherlock has already moved on, typing quickly on his laptop.

"You'll need tests and…nutrition and…what else? John…_what will you need_?"

John is surprised. He'd been expecting that _he_ would be the one panicking. That Sherlock would see him at his worst when he had his meltdown- a meltdown which is there, looming in the background. That Sherlock would have to help John, would have to put him back together when he totally lost it over this unexpected pregnancy.

But the fact that _Sherlock_ is panicking makes John feel…better.

Not that he wants Sherlock to be afraid. He never wants Sherlock to be fearful. But Sherlock's fear gives John something else to concentrate on besides his own.

He strides forward, plucks the laptop from Sherlock, and pulls his Alpha into his arms.

"_John_." Sherlock immediately clutches at him. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I never… don't…I thought I was prepared but then…and you…"

John can feel Sherlock's heart fluttering against his chest, can see the pulse racing at the side of his neck, and he fondly guides Sherlock's face so he can scent him. "It'll be ok, Sherlock." He murmurs, letting Sherlock sag against him and snuffle at the bend of his neck. He tries not to notice how peaceful the action makes him feel. "It'll be ok. We'll figure it out. We're not the first couple to go through this."

"I know we're not the first couple to go through this." Sherlock bites out irritably, shuffling closer to John, doing his best to meld their bodies together. John rubs Sherlock's back, stroking over his spine.

"Good. Then you'll know that we'll be fine." He replies lightly, smiling at Sherlock's resultant snort. He closes his eyes, letting Sherlock scent him as much as he likes and rub against him. He knows the action will calm him.

It's when he feels Sherlock's cock, hardening against his hip, that John rolls his eyes. He should've expected it. "Prat."

"What?" Sherlock asks, taking another deep breath. He shams innocence but his cock gives a traitorous jerk against John.

"Don't think I don't know what _this_ is about." John flexes his hips, pushing into Sherlock's erection and Sherlock tenses at the pressure.

"I don't-"

"You love that I smell this way." _That I smell bred_. John tries his hardest to keep the bitterness from his voice. Because this is Sherlock. The man who loves him. The person who would do anything for him. The love of his life. His Alpha. He shouldn't feel resentful. None of this is Sherlock's fault. He knows that.

The bitterness is still there, coloring how John feels. It taints everything.

Sherlock doesn't confirm or deny he loves the new way John smells, instead wordlessly sniffing his way further into the bend of John's neck and inhaling gustily. It tickles. John chuckles, grabbing at Sherlock and scrunching his neck, trying to get away. Sherlock outmaneuvers him, insinuating himself against John and quickly dipping his head, latching onto John's exposed bond bite.

The effect is instantaneous. John's laughter abruptly cuts off, ending with a high gasp and a stuttering moan as arousal flares. He grips at Sherlock's elbows, cock leaping in his jeans.

"Sherlock-"

"I want you to fuck me, John. Please."

* * *

><p>It isn't the first time John has fucked Sherlock, but admittedly it's been a while. Sherlock grimaces at the uncomfortable stretch of his arse around John's slick fingers, his body giving way to the pressure and onslaught in a way that isn't pleasurable. Yet. He knows it will get better. It always does.<p>

It's worth any amount of discomfort, though, to be able to bask in the way John stares at him while he prepares Sherlock. He looks at Sherlock like he's the loveliest thing he's ever seen. That he doesn't know how he ever got so lucky. John's eyes are dark and full of desire, raptly watching as his fingers glide in and out of Sherlock's body. His lips part, tongue flicking out to wet them, and a gravely groan vibrates from his chest. It is all Sherlock can do not to preen beneath the lustful observation. As it is, his cock hardens, twitches to life again, even though his arse is still unpleasantly tight around John's fingers.

Sherlock cheekily lifts his hips, taking John's fingers deeper, purposefully clenching around them to tease John.

"Jesus…fuck." John reverently breathes, as Sherlock had known he would, and his cock slams into full hardness. John twists his fingers inside Sherlock and he whimpers accordingly. "You're gorgeous like this."

John once told Sherlock he'd never done this before with an Alpha- only a few Beta men- and Sherlock always feels a giddy swoop of possessiveness that he's the only one. That he can give John what the others wouldn't. That he's somehow special to John. He would do anything for him.

"I'm ready." He knows he's not stretched as much as he perhaps should be, but he wants John to enjoy how tight he is. He wants to be told how wonderful he feels. Otherwise, what's the point? "John. Please."

"Not yet, Sherlock."

Sherlock pouts, pursing his lips, and finally- after rolling his eyes- John gives in. He slicks up his cock and Sherlock watches, heart thudding in his chest in eager anticipation. He would never call John's cock small, wouldn't insult him in that way. It is, however, a textbook Omega penis. Much smaller than Sherlock's. Diminutive. Average. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of. In all honesty, Sherlock's not sure he would want anything bigger up his arse. In his opinion, John's cock is perfect.

It certainly _feels_ perfect when John finally slides himself inside, moaning softly, eyes fluttering closed as if Sherlock's arse is the best feeling he's ever had.

Sherlock hopes it is. He wants it to be.

"John." He feels incredibly content with his body split open and forced to make room for John and his cock. John's eyes snap open, fixing Sherlock with a piercing stare. Sherlock tries to decipher what he sees in John's eyes, the emotions playing across his face. It seems important. Sherlock's never seen John look that way before.

But in the next second, the expression is gone. Blinked away as if it's never been. Sherlock knows it was, though, and can't forget. He is still puzzling over it when John hoists Sherlock's legs up, pressing further inside him and starts a hard, quick rhythm.

Sherlock glories in the sight above him: his fiercely protective, wonderfully loyal, incredibly courageous Omega is fucking him. Is pounding into him and forcing him to hold on to keep from being scooted forward again and again. It's heady. Amazing. His Omega, pregnant with his child, is clutching him close while he fucks into him. Using his body for both their pleasure.

There are so many questions. Concerns. Worry and guilt and fear claw their way through Sherlock's chest… but here, in the moment with John, all of that fades to the background. He concentrates on John, on his Omega, and slowly…everything else recedes.

It is a blessed mercy.

Sherlock doesn't want to touch himself. He wants to come the way John does sometimes, without a hand on his cock. It looks gorgeous when John does it- the way his face contorts, his muscles stiffening, and the beautiful mess his ejaculate makes- but he doesn't do so often. Not as often as Sherlock wants him to.

Sherlock wants to come on John's cock. Come from John fucking him. From that and that alone.

He bites his lip and tries. Strains. Concentrates on the sensations of John fucking him. The barely there brush of his cock against his prostate that sends tingles of pleasure racing up his spine. The throb of his testicles, heavy with urgent need. Pecome steadily dripping down his shaft. His cock, hard, bouncing in time to John's thrusts, teasingly rubbing against his stomach.

Sherlock whines.

It's not enough.

Close.

Almost.

But frustratingly…not.

With a groan of surrender, Sherlock reaches down to fist his cock- but John's hand is already there, wrapping around him and pumping quickly. His hand is dry. There's too much friction. Sherlock can feel the callouses on John's hands scraping roughly against his cock. He thrashes, body stiffening as his orgasm looms, sharp and excruciating. John's hips smack into him with increased urgency, his thrusts becoming disjointed as he too nears orgasm.

Sherlock comes with a clench and shudder, his senses drowning in the smell of his mate: bonded, pregnant Omega. It lends an edge to his pleasure and he greedily takes deep gulps of air, veritably getting high from it. It is the best aphrodisiac in the world. Sherlock thinks he could get hard again, just from smelling John. It's almost like how he smells when he's in heat.

But _better_.

John doesn't like it when Sherlock scents him at the best of times. John _despises_ Sherlock liking the new way he smells since he's…with child. He can't help it. Sherlock does resist the urge to pull John closer to he can revel in his scent, but it hurts. Feels like cutting off his own right arm.

John stiffens above him, driving in deep one last time, and Sherlock moans, desperate for John's ejaculate. He loves the feel of John coming inside him. The hardening of his cock stretching him that tiniest bit further. The sudden, warm slick. The pulsing of his cock. He knows, if he doesn't clean up proper, he'll be dripping with it, will feel John's tangible claim for days.

John pulls out, gasping from oversensitivity, and gives Sherlock a half-hearted smile, smoothing his hand down Sherlock's stomach. "I'll get us something to clean up with."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Trepidation wipes the post-orgasmic lassitude away from Sherlock's mind like a sudden blast of cold air. All the worry and fear from earlier stampedes through him. Suddenly, it's hard to breathe again.

Sherlock reaches for John but he steps back, still smiling. It looks more like a grimace and sits wrong on his face.

Sherlock wants to tell him to stop. The words are lodged in his throat along with everything else he wants to say.

"John-"

"I'll be right back." John turns away from him and Sherlock is left, bereft.


	2. The Silence of Words Unspoken

"Has John seemed a bit _odd_ to you lately?"

Sherlock misses a note on his violin, the instrument making a shriek of protest as the bow skips along the strings. He pauses, inspecting the strings and pretending to tune it in order to buy himself time while he recovers from the shock of Mrs. Hudson's question.

"I can't put my finger on it," She continues thoughtfully, unaware of Sherlock's quandary, "but he seems different. More withdrawn than usual. Stroppy."

Sherlock places the violin beneath his chin, positions his bow, feigning disinterest. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugs, fingering her teacup, watching Sherlock sway as he begins playing again. It's early evening and there's nothing on the telly. All the housework is done. John is at work and the two of them, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, are 'visiting.' Mrs. Hudson brought tea and biscuits when she barged her way into the flat earlier and Sherlock, stewing in the silence and his own unpleasant thoughts, had been happy for the company. They'd been having a rather enjoyable time. Dull but…nice.

Until Mrs. Hudson asked her question.

Sherlock is suddenly ready for the visit to be over.

"He just seems…well…off. You know, he's normally nice. Oh, mulish and stubborn. And he's always so tetchy about…you know…_Omega things_." Mrs. Hudson lowers her voice, talking in a hushed tone as she always does when discussing John and his being an Omega, as if the army doctor were hovering behind her, ready to throttle her if he heard the slightest mention of his gender. "Of course, I thought he would have got over _that_ by now. What with the two of you being bonded and so happy together." She smiles cheekily at Sherlock but he can't return the expression. Is John happy with him? He thinks not.

"It just seems like lately something's bothering him. And I can't quite put my finger on it…" Mrs. Hudson trails off, frowning.

Sherlock shrugs, turning away from her. He thinks of the endless stretches of silence over the last few days. John quiet and moody. Constantly frowning. Snapping over the smallest things. Huffing and going for walks with no explanation and without inviting Sherlock. Not bothering to ask if there are any cases. Not seeming to care. He also hasn't touched Sherlock in five days- no hugs, no kisses, no scentings, and definitely no sex. John even makes sure to keep their bodies separate so they don't so much as brush against each other as they pass. Sherlock hasn't initiated anything either, not since that afternoon almost a week ago when John returned with his test results. He knows when he's not wanted.

"I know I'm probably worrying over nothing." Mrs. Hudson chides, seemingly more to herself than Sherlock. "Being silly. But I'd still like to know…and if there's anything I can do to help…"

Sherlock suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to tell Mrs. Hudson everything. To unburden himself of the guilt of what's happening. She's an Omega and he trusts her. She loves both himself and John. No doubt she would be able to give him some advice and help him find a way out of the mess he's in.

"I haven't noticed anything." He says, dismissive. John would hate him telling people about their private affairs. Mrs. Hudson included. The pregnancy is John's secret to tell and, for the time being, he's keeping it just that: secret. Sherlock knows that eventually, telling people will be unavoidable. John's scent will change- noticeably- for everyone else to smell, not just his bonded mate. He will gain weight. His stomach will expand. The changes will be obvious. He won't be able to hide it as he's currently doing.

But for now, Sherlock knows he's supposed to stay quiet. John will tell people when he's ready. When he's come to grips with what's happening and when he's no longer ashamed of being pregnant.

Sherlock swallows heavily. He knows John is ashamed. Embarrassed that his body is betraying him by being so very…Omega. Sherlock himself is unsure how he feels about John's pregnancy. He's unsure how he feels about John being ashamed of it. He knows the idea gives him a sort of hollow ache that rather hurts…but that's possibly indigestion. John hasn't been cooking lately and Sherlock's had to shift for himself. It's possible he's eaten something off and that's the source of his discomfort.

He won't mention it to anyone. Least of all John. He has enough to worry about at the moment.

"Maybe I'll invite him down for supper tonight when he gets home." Mrs. Hudson decides, smiling at Sherlock as if his entire world isn't slowly crashing and burning and dying around him. "You know, have a fry up like he likes. And you can come too, dear. I just want to make sure everything's ok." She presses her lips together, eyeing Sherlock speculatively, before asking hesitantly. "Everything _is_ ok, isn't it?"

"Of course." Sherlock thinks of John, rolling away from him in bed, his back to Sherlock the whole night long. John refusing to let Sherlock scent him, even a little, and the painful crawl of rejection which had swarmed across Sherlock's skin like millions of ants. Watching television with John late one night and when the advert for discreet bond-breaking had come on, John awkwardly clearing his throat and going to make tea. The persistent feeling that he's losing John, bit by bit, every day and he doesn't know what to do in order to stop it. "Why wouldn't it be?"

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><p>John carefully avoids Sherlock's eyes when Mrs. Hudson pours out a hefty glass of wine for each of them, sliding John's in front of him with a pleased smile.<p>

"Your favorite. I bought it just for tonight. You know, a sort of special occasion."

"That's…thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Really. I'm…that's great. But I think I'd rather have water tonight, thanks. I've got a bit of a headache." John bumbles, face open and honest. John has always been a terrible liar. Sherlock can see right through him, the falsehood sitting on John's visage tellingly. Mrs. Hudson, though, just seems concerned.

"Oh, but it's your favorite."

"I know- and thanks. _Really_. But my head-"

"Oh, a few glasses of this'll fix you right up, dear. Mark my words. Drink up! You just need some food to go along with it. Sherlock helped me cook, lord bless him." Mrs. Hudson titters. "It's all edible though, John. I watched him." She taps her nose, going to fetch the rest of dinner. Sherlock offers John a hesitant smile across the table which he returns- barely. They both look at John's glass of wine.

"It's inconclusive whether drinking during the first trimester increases the risk of-"

"I know." John hisses and, standing without another word, goes to help Mrs. Hudson with the food, leaving Sherlock sitting at the table by himself.

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><p>Sherlock genuinely exerts himself during dinner, trying to contribute to the conversation. It feels forced. Everything he says falls flat. He feels too raw and worried to adequately keep up with the idle chitchat, stomach jumping and so uncertain he can hardly eat a bite. And as dinner wears on, Mrs. Hudson keeps glancing between he and John, obviously noticing the way John avoids looking at Sherlock, the way John no longer talks <em>to<em> Sherlock but talks _around_ him. She starts to look as if she _knows_- and Sherlock prays to a god he doesn't believe in that she'll have enough tact to not say anything.

He wants to leave. He can tell John wants to do the same, that he isn't enjoying himself. He's doing a good job pretending he is- casually avoiding his glass of wine and taking sips of water, eating and talking and laughing. John's always been better than Sherlock at pretending to enjoy himself, though. Sherlock envies him.

He pokes listlessly at his potatoes while he stares at John. Wishing John would turn and look at him. Just once. A glance, a smile, a small word. Something. Anything. It's cruel to sit here, so close to John, but with a yawning distance between them that Sherlock's unable to cross. He physically _aches_ with the need to touch John. The idea of scenting him is pure bliss. It's torture to know he isn't allowed.

Finally, after they've had coffee (Sherlock watching John imbibe the caffeine with a worried frown while John defiantly ignores him), they are allowed to flee back to their own flat. Mrs. Hudson presses a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, hugging him, before doing the same to John. That close, Sherlock thinks she'll notice the subtle difference in John's scent that _screams_ pregnant and, from the way John's shoulder tense and his jaw clenches, he obviously thinks the same thing. She doesn't notice, though, doesn't say anything, and John minutely relaxes.

They ascend the stairs together, the atmosphere now they are alone descending heavy and thick between them. The light going out and plunging them into darkness. Sherlock swallows, not knowing what to say, how to make this situation better.

He knows John hates what is happening. Doubtlessly, he hates they ever started this. That he ever bonded with Sherlock in the first place. It's there- all the evidence is there- in John's posture, in the way he deals with Sherlock on a daily basis. Sherlock doesn't know what he could have done differently, though. He's been over it and over it…and he still draws a blank.

"I'm knackered." John says when they get upstairs, not bothering to turn and face Sherlock. "I'm for bed." He doesn't ask if Sherlock is joining him. He obviously doesn't care. "Goodnight."

Sherlock watches John stride toward their room, the hollow ache in his chest getting worse with every passing second. This time, he knows it's not indigestion.

"John." He blurts before he gives it rational thought, heart racing. He doesn't know what to do. What to say. How to make this better. John is usually his guiding star, the person to tell him what is acceptable. But he's closed-off. Inaccessible.

He _has_ to make this better. He has to. There has to be a way. He doesn't want to lose John.

"What?" John turns, posture stiff, chin jutted out. Ready to fight. Sherlock doesn't know why. He doesn't want to fight with John. John, however, seems spoiling for a fight.

"I…I know you're….unhappy." Sherlock fidgets, biting his lip. John raises his eyebrows, not denying it, waiting. "With…the way things are." Sherlock clarifies unnecessarily. John remains unmoved. "There are…._ways_…to fix this." That's all he can say. It hurts to even say that much. Sherlock doesn't want John to "fix this." In Sherlock's opinion, there's nothing to fix. John probably thinks differently. The idea sends lances of pain soaring up through Sherlock's middle, squeezing around his lungs. He can't breathe.

John looks confused for a few seconds. Then the meaning of what Sherlock has said sinks in.

"Is that what you want me to do?" He asks, voice hard, face smoothed out, betraying no emotions.

No. Never. The very idea makes Sherlock feel something akin to panic.

He licks suddenly dry lips, taking a deep breath. "It's not about what _I_ want-"

"That's not answering my question."

Sherlock can't say yes. He can't. It's selfish. He's being horrible, unforgivably selfish. If he said yes, it would relieve John of this burden. He could do as he wanted without feeling badly about it. Then maybe they could go back to the way things were. John would be happy. He wouldn't blame Sherlock or hate him for what happened. They'd never discuss it, let the memory fade and never bring it up again. Take extra precautions to ensure there wasn't a future repeat.

But Sherlock can't. He just…he can't. He wishes he'd never even brought up the idea. If John wants to go through with it, Sherlock is prepared to beg him not to.

"I only thought I'd mention it…" He murmurs, shamefully backing down.

"Mm." John nods, obviously angry. Sherlock's heart falters. He hadn't meant to make John angry. _Angrier_. He was _already_ angry with Sherlock. "Never fucking mention it again. Yeah?"

The slamming of their bedroom door is loud in the tense silence of the flat. Sherlock lets himself sink down onto his chair, relief and sadness warring in his chest.

* * *

><p><strong>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE COMMENTING!<strong>

**Sorry to yell, but there are a few things I need to clarify:**

**1. There is some thinly veiled talk about abortion in this chapter but that's all it will be. Talk. We're not having abortion in this story. Nothing is happening to the baby. It will be fine.**  
><strong> 2. John's acting like an insensitive dick. I'm writing John's part of this argument in the next chapter. Please don't yell at me about John until you've read that chapter. It gives more insight into how John's dealing with this and should be posted some time next week.<strong>


	3. Scent

John sags against the bedroom door as soon as it closes, curling in on himself slightly as he fights the burst of longing that sweeps through him. He fists his hands at his sides to keep from wrenching the door back open, striding across the room, and flinging himself at Sherlock- desperately and wholly without dignity. John tamps down on the longing whine building in his throat as ideas of scenting Sherlock crowd into his mind. He can almost _taste_ on his tongue, in the back of his throat, how fucking _good_ Sherlock would smell: Cinnamon. Smoke. Musk. Purely, masculine Alpha.

Comforting.

Arousing.

It's been _ages_ since John has allowed himself to scent Sherlock. Not since their quick fuck in the alleyway and that was weeks ago. The changing hormones in his body make fighting against it- which he is usually very adept at doing- harder and harder.

Sherlock is his mate. They're bonded. It's only natural John would want to scent him. No one would fault him for it.

Except himself.

John clenches his eyes closed, body trembling as he wars with what he wants- which is to scent Sherlock until he's giddy, bloody high from it- and what he _also_ wants…which is to not want to scent Sherlock. To be above it. To not feel the driving _need_ to do so.

The crux of the problem is that John, for all that he tries to pretend he doesn't, loves scenting Sherlock. _Loves it._ John rarely admits it even to himself in his most private moments- but he does. Sherlock has always smelled divine. Even before they bonded, John was unwillingly drawn to Sherlock's natural scent. Liked to catch whiffs of it while they were at crime scenes. As Sherlock swanned past. When they were cooking dinner together. And, once they started sleeping together, pressing his nose into Sherlock's hair as he pretended to kiss his forehead and taking a clandestine breath.

After they'd bonded, Sherlock's scent had naturally changed. Became darker. Muskier. Utterly captivating. John pretended not to notice- still pretends- and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. He's afraid if he starts scenting Sherlock- indulging himself- that he won't be able to stop. That Sherlock will take it as a sign he can scent John whenever and wherever he wants, crowding against him and rubbing his body all over him. Marking him. It makes John feel claustrophobic.

But surely maybe…just this once…he could let himself slip? Scent Sherlock a bit?

"Goddammit." John breathes, swallowing convulsively, trying to get himself under control. He will not go back out there. He _won't_. He refuses.

Besides, not two minutes ago Sherlock was standing across from him in the sitting room, asking John to break their bond. He won't want John pressing his body against him and full-on scenting him like an Omega in heat.

Sherlock wants to break their bond.

It hurts. The pain of rejection blossoms in John's chest and spreads out, clenching his stomach, sending his mind into a reckless haze. John absently massages at the ache, the longing to go out and scent Sherlock only getting stronger. He wants the comfort it would bring. The sense of solidarity. The reassurance.

Fuck that. He's not some witless Omega who needs their Alpha to calm them down when they get the least little bit upset. He's stronger than that. He's _always_ been stronger than that and he's not going to start going _soft_ now.

The thing is, John thinks, he isn't all that surprised Sherlock doesn't want him anymore. He'd honestly expected it to happen sooner. For Sherlock to get tired of him, grow bored, and want to end their relationship. It was why John suggested Sherlock bond with him in the first place: as an effort to keep Sherlock with him. Forever.

It had been an unforgivably selfish reason to bond with Sherlock...and John wasn't surprised it had all blown up in his face. It was what he probably deserved, manipulating Sherlock as he'd done so he could have what he wanted. He's surprised it took Sherlock this long to decide he doesn't want their bond.

Shame twists hotly through John's body as he glances down at himself. He's not showing- yet- but he knows he will in the coming months. He'll be slow and cumbersome. Useless.

And frankly, the idea of the two of them having a child is ridiculous. Absurd. Laughable. Most sane people would say their parental rights should be revoked purely on principle. Their lifestyle doesn't allow for a child. It would take Sherlock away from the work. He would hate that. Resent John, no doubt, and blame him for changing their lives.

Of course Sherlock wants to break their bond, John thinks despondently. Why wouldn't he?

He wonders if it hurts awfully much- breaking their bond. He's heard stories but never known someone personally to go through the lengthy process.

Their bedroom smells faintly like Sherlock, tendrils of scent wafting enticingly around John's nose. It's alluring. Incredibly tempting. He clenches his jaw and stares stoically at the bed for a few seconds, debating, before making up his mind. He sheds his clothes, tossing them in the hamper and, pausing to make sure Sherlock is still in the sitting room, slides between the cool sheets. John immediately presses his face to Sherlock's designated side of the bed and inhales deeply.

The lingering scent of Alpha clinging to the fabric is paltry. Hardly worth mentioning. But after going without it for so long it floods through John's system, lighting up his nerve endings and provoking a small, breathy moan of contentment. He snuggles closer to Sherlock's side of the bed, gripping fistful of sheet in each hand, trying to pull as much of it around him as he can. John absently realizes he's undulating his body against the mattress, as if Sherlock were actually there and he was scenting him. John wrestles his body back under control, willing it to stillness, but his cock still goes stubbornly stiff, throbbing at the stimulus of Alpha musk.

John would rather die than let anyone see him like this. It's base. Crude. A typical Omega habit that he detests. Even as he breathes in the smell of his mate, John can't stop the prickle of humiliation over what he's doing which quenches some of the resultant pleasure and comfort Sherlock's scent always brings him.

He still lets himself savor the measly scent for a few more precious seconds, the tension in his chest easing with every breath…but John doesn't want to fall asleep and get caught sniffing Sherlock's covers. With one last lungful, he reluctantly heaves himself away from Sherlock's side of the bed, rolling onto his own and staring up at the ceiling.

Sherlock's scent, little though there was of it, has worked. John feels a lot better, his eyes itching with exhaustion. As his eyelids start to droop, he sighs, deciding to deal with everything- this lapse, the breaking of their bond, what he will say to Sherlock- tomorrow.

* * *

><p>John wakes out of his light, fitful doze with a snort and a jerk when the bed suddenly dips, indicating Sherlock coming to bed. He blinks in the darkness, squinting at the bedside clock which indicates it's a few hours later, well past midnight. He listens to Sherlock arrange himself, obviously trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible so as not to wake John. John is surprised Sherlock even came to bed. He hasn't the past few nights and he's unsure what this change means. Especially in the light of Sherlock's question last evening.<p>

John holds his breath when Sherlock finally settles. His heart is pounding. He feels like he needs to address what happened. What they sort of discussed. And his conscious is pricking at him. Unbearably. He's already been so selfish when it comes to Sherlock. If Sherlock wants this…John can give it to him.

Finally, he clears his throat and from the way Sherlock goes unnaturally stiff, John knows he's gone on alert.

"Listen, Sherlock…I'm…uh…I'm sorry."

The sheets whisper in the dark as Sherlock turns to face him. A gust of his scent hits John in the face and he discreetly tries to sniff as much of it as he can.

"What for?" Sherlock's voice rumbles in the dark, husky and deep, and it never fails to tug at something low in John's abdomen. He shoves that aside, though. Now isn't the time.

"I shouldn't have got mad at you. Earlier. For what you said." His heart is pounding as he stares blankly into the darkness, carefully picking over his words. He hates things like this. "I shouldn't have got mad. You were just…trying to help. And I know you wouldn't have mentioned…_that_…unless you'd given it a lot of thought." John thinks he sounds pathetic and tries to stop himself from blabbering. He needs to get to his point. "Anyway. It was…selfish of me. To just reject it out of hand like that. And…and we could. If that's…I mean, if that's what you really want."

Sherlock is absolutely silent. John can't even hear him breathe. He tries mentally willing Sherlock to say something. He wants Sherlock to deny it. To say he was wrong. That he's changed his mind. He wants their bond, wants to preserve it and stay with John.

He doesn't.

Feeling sick, John plows on.

"We've…well…not been bonded that long anyway. And I know it was all my idea. You…You wouldn't have done it if I hadn't brought it up. So…if you want to break our bond…I…I'll understand." The words almost choke him but John swallows thickly and plows on. "I don't know where-"

"What?" Sherlock jerks upright in the bed, startling John. "I don't want to break our bond!"

John blinks up at Sherlock's dark form looming over him. He can't see Sherlock's face but the tone of his voice sounds...frightened? "I thought…isn't that what you were talking about earlier?"

"_No_! I meant…I wasn't asking you to break our bond." Sherlock's voice, agitated and unsteady, is high-pitched and he grips John's shoulder, fingers digging in rather painfully. "John. I don't want our bond broken. Ever. I would never suggest... John...please..."

"Hey, hey. It's ok." John sits up and pulls Sherlock into his arms, shuddering at the resultant warmth and fucking _scent_. Swallowing thickly around his sudden want, he hugs Sherlock to him tighter, stroking Sherlock's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp like he knows Sherlock enjoys. He can feel the other man breathing hard, trembling against him from sheer panic. "Fuck- Sherlock…you're the one who brought it up-"

Sherlock shakes his head fiercely against John's neck. "No- I would never." He chokes and John suddenly feels horrible for misunderstanding him and doing this to Sherlock. He also feels an incredible sense of relief.

"All right. You're all right." He murmurs, tying to soothe him. He thinks of ducking his head down and pressing his face to the bend of Sherlock's neck. His throat goes dry at the idea of how Sherlock's skin- warm and clean- would smell. How it would taste on his tongue. "You're sure, though…that's not what you were asking?" He can't help prodding, needing just that tiniest bit more of assurance.

Sherlock pulls away enough to press his lips to John's in a chaste kiss. "Never." He whispers, his lips catching against John's, dragging warmly against them and parting them wider with each word. "Our bond is one of the most important things to me, John." He says solemnly and John's heart stutters and then picks up at a rapid-fire pace.

"What was it you meant then?" He asks, licking his lips, not-so-accidentally catching Sherlock's lower lip with his tongue. Sherlock's breath hitches and John leans closer to him. After all the emotions running high and charged and close to the surface, it's an easy step to channel it all into sex. John's more than okay making that leap.

"Unimportant now."

"I'd still like to know." At the moment, with Sherlock angling his head to the side, his breath ghosting hot along John's chin, he doesn't really care anymore. Sherlock said he doesn't want to break their bond. That's good enough for John.

"It was nothing." Sherlock insists and John decides to let the subject drop in favor of tugging at Sherlock's hair, bringing him closer, and snogging him. He pushes at Sherlock's shoulders, urging him onto his back, and Sherlock wraps his arms around John's back, bringing him down with him. Sherlock's scent is all around him, accosting his nose, filling his lungs, and John's cock thickens in response. He rocks against Sherlock's own rapidly hardening cock, nudging insistently against him, pleasure a fire in his veins. John licks into Sherlock's mouth, drinking in his gasps and sighs, countering each of Sherlock's thrusts with one of his own.

They struggle to get Sherlock out of his clothes, fumbling between them and getting tangled, jerking agitatedly at fabric until it gives. The press of skin against skin makes John groan, gripping whatever part of Sherlock he can reach. He knows this will be over quickly. It's been a while since they've been together and, after all the emotions from earlier…his body is primed for a quick release.

He wraps his hand around Sherlock's cock, stroking over the smooth, rigid skin, thumbing over the leaking head, and Sherlock pants into his mouth. His hips twitch into John's grasp, body trembling, and John realizes Sherlock is just as far gone as he is. Sherlock's own fingers skim down John's belly and form a tight fight around his straining cock. John moans, thrilled when he hears Sherlock mirror him, moaning in response, his cock leaking copiously.

John can't get close enough to Sherlock, even as it impedes them, makes jerking each other off harder. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, encouraging John instead of pushing him away, biting at his lips, stroking his cock as much as he can given the lack of space.

"God…Sherlock- fucking gorgeous…can't…God…I love you-" John growls against Sherlock's lips, pumping his cock in short, quick bursts. He can feel Sherlock's thighs shaking tellingly, knows he's close, and John palms the head of his cock, excitement surging. He wants Sherlock to come. Wants to smear Sherlock's semen all over himself, anoint his body with it and revel in the scent of it. At the moment, it sounds as blissful as a hot bath at the end of a long, dusty day.

Sherlock grunts, high and eager in his throat, when he comes. His orgasm spills between them, hot and wet, and John catches it all in his hand. He mindlessly smears it across his skin, across his stomach and chest, dizzy with the hot musky tang of it. He strokes Sherlock through the rest of his orgasm, milking his cock of every last drop and depositing the viscous liquid onto himself, moaning as he does it.

It feels amazing. His skin tingles and John almost feels as if he's floating. He feels fucking incandescent.

Then, in the space of one heartbeat to the next, John realizes what he's done.

His heart sinks like a stone in his chest.

John stares at the thick, white strands of semen webbing his fingers. At how he's spread it all over himself. He's completely disgusted.

It's enough to kill his arousal. He can feel his cock flagging in Sherlock's hand, going soft, visible proof of his revulsion. He reaches down, brushing Sherlock's hand away.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is husky and ragged from his orgasm. John can almost detect beneath it the inherent judgment over his actions.

He can feel the semen cooling on his skin, drying. He would like nothing better than to leave it there all night. Let it dry. Wake up in the morning rank with it. Able to still see the visible evidence on his body. It sounds fantastic.

John thinks he's going to throw up.

"I'm...not really in the mood right now." He lies, rolling away from Sherlock and stumbling out of bed.

"John?"

John prays Sherlock doesn't follow him. He's not sure what he'll do if he does. "I'll just...be a minute." He says absently, forcing himself to walk calmly to the loo and gently close the door. He looks down at himself, at the stark trails of Sherlock's semen decorating his stomach. His pregnant stomach.

John barely manages to lift the lid of the toilet before emptying the contents of his stomach.


	4. Misunderstandings

Hours later, John is still being sick in the loo.

Sherlock listens outside the door, trying to be quiet so John won't know he's there. He went in earlier to check on his mate, having spent the better part of the night impotently listening to John being sick, wishing there were something he could do. John would intermittently emerge from the loo, shaky and clammy, and crawl into bed with Sherlock, sweating and smelling faintly of vomit…only to hurry to the loo again after a few short minutes. The door would barely close before the sounds of his gagging were heard.

"Food poisoning." John had grunted huskily when Sherlock tentatively knocked on the door earlier, bringing John a robe and offering to do something- anything- to give him comfort. "S'what it's got to be. Don't know why else I'd be…." John broke off to dry heave into the toilet, his spine bowing under the pressure, body convulsing, and face turning an alarming shade of red. Sherlock watched helplessly.

He isn't entirely certain John's sickness is due to food poisoning.

He doesn't think John believes it is either.

They'd both eaten the same foods at Mrs. Hudson's the evening before and Sherlock isn't sick. He's fine. Mrs. Hudson is still asleep downstairs, undisturbed by an upset stomach.

It's only John. Omega, pregnant John.

Morning sickness early in Omega pregnancies is common. That factoid had been part of the research Sherlock had done as soon as he found out John was pregnant…but that feels like ages ago and so much has happened since then. Frustratingly, Sherlock can only remember very little of it.

He glances behind him where his mobile lies on the bedside table. He thinks of retrieving it and brushing up on his knowledge….when John suddenly retches violently, the sound of vomit hitting the toilet graphic enough to make Sherlock shudder and suppress his own gag reflex. John groans, weak and thready, and Sherlock presses his hand against the door, resting his forehead against the wooden surface, wanting to be with John but knowing his presence isn't wanted.

"Oh, God." John moans, voice echoing off the bathroom tiles, sounding pathetic and defeated.

Sherlock feels helpless.

He hates feeling this way. He needs something to do. Something to occupy himself with. Something…something _useful_ to help John.

Inspiration strikes like lightning and he gasps with the sudden brilliance of the idea: breakfast. Of course. It's almost time for breakfast and John always likes to start his day with something to eat. A good breakfast has the ability to put John in an extraordinary mood. Smiling, plan firmly in place and given an impetus, Sherlock tiptoes away from the door and into the kitchen.

He thinks briefly about asking Mrs. Hudson to make breakfast…but immediately dismisses the idea. Sherlock doesn't want anyone else making food for John except himself. Especially when John is so vulnerable and sick.

Oh. Hateful. Sherlock almost rolls his eyes. This- this sudden longing to _provide_ for John- is one of those pedantic Alpha things. He should have known. He remembers his father always cooking for his mother, smiling happily as she ate every bite and his mother teasing that she would run to fat if his father had his own way. He had always cooked so much for her. All her favorites, whenever she wanted them.

Sherlock had never understood the drive to do such a stupid thing before. He does now.

He spends half an hour meticulously whisking eggs and frying bacon and heating beans, toasting bread and making tea. He grabs John's favorite brand of jam from the cupboard and sets out the butter dish. It's a good fry-up, Sherlock thinks, proudly surveying the table where all John's favorite dishes are laid out, ready to eat.

He's done well.

John, when he manages to shuffle out of the loo, robe haphazardly hanging off his shoulder, takes one look at the table and goes pale. His face does a funny expression and before Sherlock can ask what's wrong, John sprints back to the loo and slams the door behind him. Seconds later, Sherlock hears him retching.

His shoulders droop, face falling. He ambles down the hall and palms the door open. John is slumped on the floor in front of the toilet, head held in trembling hands.

"Please…get rid of it." He pleads shakily from his crouch on the floor. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I appreciate it- really. But…I can't…I don't think I'm up to eating anything this morning."

Of course John can't eat when he's sick. Idiot. What had he been thinking?

Sherlock tosses the food out, dumping the plates into the garbage with annoyed passion. He's angry at himself for being so careless, for making John's sickness worse. He's supposed to be smart. He should have thought, should have realized.

He takes the garbage bags down to the bins and opens a window to allow fresh air in to wash away the smell of cooked food.

"Sorry about breakfast." John looks more composed when he comes back into the kitchen, sniffing tentatively at the fresh air. He gives Sherlock a small smile and it washes over him, warming him like a sunbeam. "I should have told you I wasn't up to anything."

"My fault. I should have known." Sherlock replies tersely. "Can I get you…anything?"

"Maybe just tea. I think."

Sherlock already has one waiting and slides the mug across the table to John. It's piping hot, steam wafting up from the brown liquid, and sweetened just the way John likes.

John grimaces at his first sip. "What is this?"

"Tea?"

"No, it's…different." John peers into his cup as if looking for evidence. "It's not our usual brand."

"No." Sherlock confirms and John looks at him as if he's betrayed him. "It's Twinning's. Decaffeinated. I bought it at the shop earlier this week." Sherlock fetches the box and sets it in front of John, who glares at it suspiciously before glancing at Sherlock and quite obviously forcing a smile.

"Well. Thanks." John raises his mug again, taking a small sip. Sherlock can tell he hates it. John doesn't tuck into his tea with his usual gusto. His eyes go pinched at the corners. Lips pursing in reaction to the bitterness even after he's lowered the cup.

"You don't like it." Sherlock states flatly and John shakes his head, attempting another smile.

"No, Sherlock, it's fine. Really. Thanks for making it-"

"There's no need to lie, John. You hate it." Sherlock feels irrationally angry at himself. He should have known John would hate the tea. He should have chosen one of the better brands. Or sampled it himself. Moron. Idiot. John's already not feeling well and then he makes him a substandard cup of tea. "Just admit it." He snaps, not wanting John's well-meaning lies.

"Uhm." John clears his throat, frowning, puzzled at Sherlock's frustration. "Well. A...a bit. Yeah."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, exasperated. John relents.

"Yes, ok, I hate it. It's terrible. It tastes like tea-flavored hot water."

"That's what tea is, John."

"No, it's-" John sighs, staring at Sherlock from beneath lowered brows, obviously wondering if Sherlock is taking the piss. "It tastes like hot water with the barest _suggestion_ of tea."

"So not strong enough."

"Not strong enough, no."

"I have lots of others for you to try." Sherlock scrambles up with the intention of making John a better cup to prove it, but John swallows convulsively, holding up a hand.

"That's ok, love. Really. I don't really think I'd be able to stomach it this morning."

Sherlock sinks back into his chair and they sit for a few minutes in uneasy silence. John studies the scarred and discolored wood grain of the table. Sherlock studies John.

They need to talk about everything. Don't they? Isn't that what other couples would do? Discuss the pregnancy and make...plans? Sherlock doesn't know what plans would need to be made, but surely some would. Aren't there decisions they should be making? Long-term goals to outline?

And won't John need doctor visits? Some sort of special...coaching? Sherlock's brow furrows as he thinks about it. He's read a bit online but John always has his own ideas and will want to do things his way. Which is more than fine. He's a doctor, after all. He's the one having the baby…

Sherlock licks his lips nervously. If they hadn't been intimate last night- if John hadn't initiated their coupling- he wouldn't have the courage to broach the touchy subject. But John had kissed him with so much enthusiasm and hunger. He'd told Sherlock he loved them. That he wanted him. It's fine.

"Should we perhaps talk about it?"

"It?" John looks genuinely confused, as if Sherlock's just uttered a non sequitur. Sherlock wonders if this is a deliberate tactic on John's part to make him drop the subject.

"The...your..." Sherlock gestures at John's body, waving his fingers, willing him to understand.

John doesn't, not a flicker of recognition showing on his face. Definitely being deliberately obtuse.

"Your…pregnancy." It's the first time _the word_ has left Sherlock's mouth and it causes a swooping sensation in his belly. His heart flutters and his chest abruptly feels too small to contain all the emotions he's feeling over that single term.

"Oh." John glances away from Sherlock and sits back in his chair, appearing at ease but Sherlock's known John long enough to see it for the ruse it is. John's uncomfortable. He's on the defensive. "What do you think we need to discuss about it?"

Sherlock didn't think he would need to explain himself. He thought John would know and therefore take the lead in the conversation. He'd been expecting it, prepared to be grateful for it. He doesn't know what to say. He's out of his depth.

"I..." Sherlock flounders, sifting through information and settling on the most pertinent of questions. "Are you...feeling...good?"

"Yeah. Fairly good, yeah."

Sherlock nods. "And are you...still experiencing nausea?"

"No…"

'There are medications, you know, that would assist you in not being ill every morning during your-"

"Sherlock." John cuts him off, face impassive. "I had food poisoning. It does happen every now and again. There's no need to make it into anything it's not."

This is a horrible cock-up of a conversation. They both want it to end. Sherlock wishes he'd never started it.

"Listen, I know this isn't what you wanted." John pinches the bridge of his nose. "And I know none of this is your area. You probably don't have any room in the Mind Palace for all this-"

"I can always make new rooms." Sherlock volunteers and John snorts, almost smiles, before he sighs again, sobering.

"What did you mean? Yesterday, when we got back from Mrs. Hudson's."

"It's no longer important now, John-"

"Yeah, I know, you said that last night. I still want to know." John turns hard eyes to Sherlock, his Captain Watson eyes, and Sherlock feels caught out under their laser like focus. "You said you weren't suggesting breaking our bond. So, what was it?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock tells him. "You're clearly unhappy with the way things have turned out. We've never thought of having a child and our current lifestyle doesn't support one. And I'm firmly aware that the pregnancy itself was a mistake. So, I thought you may want to…end it. The pregnancy."

John grunts, a small little noise, insignificant, but Sherlock is instantly on alert. He's heard John make that sound before. The last time was when someone at Scotland Yard called Sherlock a freak of nature. Mycroft had managed to get John off the resulting charges but only just.

"And that's what you were going to say?"

Swallowing around a panicked lump in his throat, Sherlock nods.

"Right." John shifts in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Wary. "Right. Look, I won't lie- it has crossed my mind. What you just said. But it's not something…I don't really see us doing that. Do you?"

Relief, sweet and blissful. "No."

"You're not just saying that?" John asks, leaning forward in his chair. "You really mean that? That's how you honestly feel?"

"Yes, John."

"Fully? 100%?"

"_Yes_." Sherlock stresses and finally John nods, accepting his word. He sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his now lukewarm tea before realizing it's not his usual. He grimaces and look as if he'll spit the tea back into the cup…then glances up at Sherlock, who's watching him intently, and manfully swallows the mouthful with a shudder.

"What happens now?"

"Doctor visits. Suppose a bit of nutrition. Keep myself fed up and all that. Vitamins."

Sherlock makes a mental note of it, planning on conducting much more research later that morning. His mouth is open, ready to ask more questions, when John stands up, calling the conversation to an impromptu end.

* * *

><p>The lack of intimacy between them is wrenching.<p>

Bonded mates aren't supposed to live this way. It's not in their natures- Alpha and Omega- to exist apart. Especially when the Omega is pregnant. Their desires realign themselves when the Omega is expecting and Sherlock is therefore left with an almost constant _need_ to scent John. To provide for him. Make sure he's all right. Protect him.

John, for his part, appears unaffected.

He won't let Sherlock scent him. Not ever. Not before he goes to work. Not when he returns to the flat. Not at night when he keeps to his side of the bed and pretend Sherlock isn't even there.

The need to be close to John feels like tiny ants crawling all over Sherlock's skin, driving him to irrational fear and worry, and the longer he goes without relief, the worse it gets. It's visceral. Instinctual. It can't be reasoned with and Sherlock should know.

He keeps trying without success.

* * *

><p>John goes to his doctor for a follow-up appointment to figure out exactly how far along he is the week following their conversation. In that time, he experiences sickness every morning and can obviously no longer blame it on Mrs. Hudson's cooking. His morning sickness, though, is a forbidden topic. He snaps when anyone asks about it with the result that Mrs. Hudson, whom Sherlock wasn't able to warn in time, is now giving John the silent treatment.<p>

He doesn't ask Sherlock to go with him to his appointment and Sherlock doesn't volunteer. It's obvious John doesn't want him to go and he doesn't want to force himself where he isn't wanted.

He wishes he had forced the issue, however, when Mycroft arrives at the flat less than 5 minutes after John had left.

"Where's John?" Mycroft asks innocently as soon as Mrs. Hudson, who brought up tea and biscuits, goes back downstairs.

Sherlock snorts. "As if you don't already know."

Mycroft inclines his head, a coy smile creeping across his face. "I assure you Doctor Samuels is highly qualified, Sherlock. I made sure to personally…investigate the matter. Except for a minor indiscretion during her time at uni involving another female Omega- a very taboo relationship, by all accounts- her record is entirely spotless. She graduated with honors and has assisted countless Omegas through their births without any major problems."

"_Major_ problems?"

"Problems constantly arise in pregnancies, Sherlock. None of the ones in Doctor Samuel's file were her fault. They were naturally occurring and not springing from any incompetence on her part."

Sherlock grunts, silently grateful- for once- for Mycroft's meddling. He would have done it himself, of course, but if John had found out Sherlock was snooping on his doctor he would have accused Sherlock of doubting his ability to make the right choice of obstetrician because he was an Omega.

Which wouldn't have been the reason, Sherlock growls to himself, taking an aggressive sip of tea and scalding his tongue. He only wants to look out for John. To protect him if he can. It's this horrible Alpha need.

That, and well…he does love John. Very much.

John, he knows, wouldn't have seen it that way.

"When do you expect John to return?"

"Another hour."

"Mm. Waiting was never your forte. I could easily obtain the results for you." Mycroft offers mildly, taking a calm sip of his tea. "It would be the work of less than a minute."

It's tempting. Incredibly so.

It would be an invasion of John's privacy, though. John would be angry about it.

_If_ he found out.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snaps irritably, hating the way his brother's eyebrows quirk knowingly, picking up on his weakness and clearly finding it amusing. "Don't you have some sort of coup to arrange? Elections to rig? Pastries to eat?"

"Not this afternoon." Mycroft simpers. "That's Friday's schedule."

Sherlock grimaces, spinning away from Mycroft to hide his displeasure. He doesn't want Mycroft here. He doesn't want to have to converse and make disgusting small talk and try and act as if everything is fine. He wants to be alone, by himself like a wounded animal.

No. That's not what he wants.

He wants John back. He wants John to stop insisting on maintaining so much distance between them and wrap his arms around him, steer him to the sofa and let scent Sherlock him until neither of them smell the same as they did before. He wants John to laugh and smile like he used to. To still think he's brilliant. To stop treating him like the enemy.

A longing whine builds in Sherlock's throat but he stops it before it manages to make it past his lips.

"You should have known how this would be, Sherlock." Mycroft says softly, voice pitched low and comforting. "I tried to tell you before the two of you bonded. John isn't likely to ever change his opinion on Omegas and, by extension, his own biology. He loathes himself. This situation, his pregnancy, will only exacerbate it."

Mycroft's oh-so-sensible voice grates on Sherlock's already stretched nerves. This isn't anything he already doesn't know. Does Mycroft really think him so stupid that he doesn't even know his own mate?

"Life isn't a fairy tale, brother dear. You can't heal John by the strength of your love."

"I know that." Sherlock twists around and pins Mycroft with a glare. "What a stupid thing to say. I never expected to do such an asinine thing."

Mycroft's silence is eloquent, speaking for itself. Sherlock feels a horrendous thrill as he is reminded his brother, loathe as he is to admit it, is smarter than he is.

"I only want to see you happy."

"Does that mean you're leaving then?"

Mycroft pinches his lips in disapproval at Sherlock's childishness, but stands and slings his umbrella over his arm. "I understand you're on the defensive, but if you ever need anything- for yourself or John- please…don't hesitate to call."

Sherlock makes no such promise, remaining sullenly silent as Mycroft departs.

* * *

><p>John leaves the ultrasound photos on the kitchen table. They're in a plain manila envelope that remind Sherlock of one of the first cases he worked with Lestrade. It had involved a bomb hidden in a simple cardboard package. Wholly unremarkable, the contents of which were deadly.<p>

When he hears the shower start up and the cadence of the water change, signaling that John has entered the shower and is therefore preoccupied, Sherlock approaches the table with caution.

The photos aren't anything like he expected. There's nothing there. Just a shapeless blob on the screen. Sherlock twists the picture this way and that but can't make out what he's supposed to be looking at.

He glances at the closed loo door, wondering if he should ask John to explain the photographs to him.

After a few minutes, he puts the pictures down, and crosses the room to his laptop in search of the answers.

* * *

><p>John lets the warm water wash over his body, staring blankly at the tiles in front of him. Tremors wrack his frame, breath stuttering out in shaky exhales.<p>

He's losing control of himself. He feels sick. Weak.

Useless.

He'd wanted a shower because his doctor's visit had left him feeling sticky and soiled.

"We'll need to make certain how far along you are, Doctor Watson." Doctor Samuels had explained as she lubed up a long, curved probe while John reclined on the exam table, feet flexing in the stirrups which held his legs obscenely apart. "Since you're not sure I won't waste our time with the regular ultrasound. A transuterine ultrasound will be the best way to tell. Is that all right?"

_No_. "Yes."

It'd been uncomfortable and cold: unyielding plastic being inserted inside him. John would have died if Sherlock had been with him, watching the probe go in his arse and angle up, searching for his uterus, a part of his body he tried to pretend didn't even exist. He'd closed his eyes in mortification, only to have them flare open again at the first painful touch to his uterus.

"Sorry, dear, this'll only take a minute." Doctor Samuels said, eyes trained on the screen, clicking buttons as she took pictures. She smiled at John, holding the probe steady. "Do you want to see?"

Without waiting for his answer, she turned the screen around, displaying the black and white ultrasound picture.

It wasn't anything remarkable. John easily identified all the parts he was supposed to. Everything looked fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. It could have been any other Omega's ultrasound. It didn't feel real, like it was an actual part of him.

Doctor Samuels was still staring at him, an expectant smile on her face. John nodded and thanked her, tried smiling back. Doctor Samuels own smile slipped and she turned the screen around again, giving John a sidelong glance.

"_Jeeeesus_…" John breathes, clenching his fists and bracing himself against the shower wall. The cool tiles make him break out in goose flesh and his teeth chatter in his skull. He thinks he may be having a panic attack and for the life of him can't remember what to do. All the information is jumbled up in his brain, useless.

The rest of the appointment had gone off without a hitch. The transuterine probe had been removed and the doctor had given him a few moments to clean up and redress before she came back. John had used multiple paper towels, scrubbing roughly at himself, but it hadn't been enough. He hadn't been able to wait to get back to the flat.

He lathers up and washes his body, scouring at his skin until it's bright pink and smarting slightly. He focuses all his energy on getting clean, not allowing himself to think of anything else…and it works. A bit. By the time he's ready to get out of the shower, his heart is no longer racing and his muscles aren't knotted with tension. He still doesn't feel right. Could do with a glass of whiskey. Not allowed, though, and no reason to risk it. He supposes he'll have to settle for tea.

When John goes out into the kitchen, the envelope of pictures is still laying where he left it. Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa, hands beneath his chin, staring at the ceiling. He wonders if Sherlock looked at the contents. If he did, what does he think about it? Ambivalent, like John himself? Elated? Horrified?

Before John can ask, Sherlock's phone goes off. There's a hurried discussion and then he's dragging on his coat and running after Sherlock down the stairs, excitement thrumming through his system.

This, he thinks gratefully, taking a lungful of polluted London air, is just what he needs. A return to normal. To follow after Sherlock and be useful. Perfect.

* * *

><p>"Oh my god." Sally stares at John in horror, her nose wrinkled as if she's smelled something foul. They've been at the crime scene for all of ten minutes. Sherlock's only just gained access to the body after being told all the relevant information from Lestrade. John's standing off to the side, watching Sherlock crouch over the body as he's done a hundred times before. "Oh…my…god." Sally holds a hand up to her nose, blocking the unwanted smell.<p>

"What?" Lestrade looks between Sally and John. "What is-"

"They're _breeding_."

Silence falls over the scene. Everyone stops what they're doing- leaving the dead man lying on the ground (it's not like he's going anywhere) to stare in shock at Sherlock and John.

"No, they're not." Lestrade scoffs, ready to laugh at the absurdity of Sally's statement….then realizes John and Sherlock haven't said a word. He gives them an incredulous stare. "What- wait, _are you_?"

Sherlock glances at John for his cue as to what he should say, how he should handle the situation, but John is shut down, face closed off, visibly angry. Jaw clenched. Fists in tight knots at his sides.

"A bit."

Lestrade's unconcealed astonishment is almost insulting. Sherlock feels John bristling under the attention and experiences a genuine thrill, a shiver of anticipation up his spine, wondering how John will react.

"Well. That's…Christ. Congratulations, mate! And you, John. That's…well. Wow. Incredible. Didn't think you had it in you."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, wondering what Lestrade meant by that and if he should be insulted by it or not. Someone in the back of the room, in a knot of officers, titters but before Sherlock can work it out, John clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention.

"You know, there _is_ still a dead body here we may want to be taking a look at." He quips tersely and the crime scene _explodes_ into action. Everyone tries to look busy at once but keeps sneaking glances at their little group the whole time, whispering to each other. Sherlock doubts _any_ of them are talking about the murder that's just taken place.

"I can't believe it. I can't believe you'd let him…But what'd I tell you?" Sally asks John, giving him a patronizing look. "When you first got with him, what'd I tell you? I tried warning you. Your first mistake was moving in with him, being an unbonded Omega-"

"Yeah, I think we're done here." John rudely replies, words clipped and syllables bitten off, clearly betraying his rage. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't even spare a glance at the dead body which he'd previously labeled a seven. It's unimportant now. He follows John out of the scene without a backward glance.

* * *

><p>John jogs up the stairs ahead of Sherlock and slings his coat onto his armchair before striding to the window, hands on his hips and shoulders rigid. Sherlock follows after him at a much slower pace, warily hanging up his coat and staring powerlessly across the room at his mate. He wants to help him. He wants to do something. He wants-<p>

"I hate this." John says quietly, almost too softly for Sherlock to hear.

"I hate _all_ of this." John says a bit louder, still facing the window. Sherlock can see his face, reflected back in the glass, and the tension in his chest coils tighter.

"I never wanted this!" John suddenly shouts, startling Sherlock. Downstairs, he hears Mrs. Hudson's telly go on mute. "I never fucking wanted to be an Omega and I never wanted to be bloody bonded and then…and then goddamn _pregnant_!"

"It was your idea for us to bond." Sherlock forces the words through numb lips, as if that fact will somehow make all this better. He feels irrationally guilty, as if he's forced John into the entire situation. The relationship. The bond. The pregnancy.

"I wish I hadn't." John retorts and something vital and irreplaceable inside Sherlock dies. He can physically feel it curling up and withering in his chest. It's painful. He can't breathe. This will kill him, he knows it will.

Yet somehow, against all odds, he's still managing to function. His heart hasn't stopped. His brain is still working, at a slower capacity, yes, but working nonetheless. Blood is still flowing through his veins. Heart pumping at a healthy speed.

_I wish I hadn't._

It goes against all odds that he is still alive. John's words should have killed him.

"Look, Sherlock….I didn't mean…" John sighs, running an agitated hand through his hair, and paces away from where Sherlock is standing, frozen, locked into place by John's words. "I just…I don't want to hear people saying we're-" He broke off, jaw working angrily. "We're fucking _breeding_. Acting like that's all I'm good for. That I'm just a walking fetus factory."

Sherlock nods in agreement (he doesn't know what he's agreeing to), head bobbing at the end of his neck, muscles working in a learned, socially acceptable response.

_I wish I hadn't. _

_I wish I hadn't._

John's face does something complicated and he turns away from Sherlock as if he can't stand to look at him anymore.

Panic pounds distantly through Sherlock's system. Warning bells in the distance. Everything is muted. He's thankful for that. He doesn't know how he would be able to deal with this situation if it wasn't.

_I wish I hadn't._

_I wish I hadn't._

_I wish I hadn't._

Sherlock can still hear John, awkwardly asking him if he would care terribly much if they bonded. If that's what he wants. He can hear John's gasps, his pleadings as Sherlock knotted him. Can feel his teeth sinking into John's neck. The undeniable _click_ of their joining. The way John had smiled at him afterward, kissed him so passionately before wiping blood from Sherlock's lips. Giggled like a teenager from the high of it all.

_I wish I hadn't._

_I wish I hadn't._

"This isn't what I want." John admits and it feels like an accusation. As if he too blames Sherlock. That all this is Sherlock's failed.

It is his fault. Of course it is. Who else's fault is it?

Sherlock is devastated. Stripped and bare and raw. Every fibre of his being is pulsing in agony.

Shouldn't he say something? Beg? Plead with John to reconsider? Reason with him? He wants to convince John they're right for each other. That he shouldn't regret their bond. That Sherlock would do anything for him. He loves him. Just please-

Sherlock presses his lips together to keep the words inside.

John closes his eyes, inhaling deeply before whooshing it all out again. It's a relaxation technique but Sherlock's mind is stalled and he can't remember why John learned it. John snorts, shaking his head incredulously, and stalks past Sherlock. His scent wafts into Sherlock's face and for the first time, Sherlock doesn't lean into it.

He doesn't think he deserves it.


	5. A Tipping Point

John went to bed hating himself, replaying his argument with Sherlock over and over until he was miserable. Sickened by himself and his behavior.

The knowledge that he'd hurt Sherlock- hurt his mate, the man he loved- weighed heavy on his mind. On his conscious. The way Sherlock had looked when John irrationally snapped that he wished they'd never bonded would haunt him forever. He knew it would. The expression on Sherlock's face- the hurt and betrayal- twisted like a knife through John's stomach.

He hadn't meant it. Honestly, he hadn't. It had been _his_ idea, originally, that the two of them bond after all. And he'd loved it. Every second of tying himself and his body to Sherlock. He actually hadn't expected to enjoy it as much as he had, viewing the process as a necessary evil in order to keep Sherlock for himself…but he had.

God, how he had.

John wished he'd never said it. Wished he could take the words back. But he couldn't, they were out there now. And he'd hurt Sherlock with his callousness. Perhaps irreparably. He wouldn't blame Sherlock if he never forgave him. John didn't even know what he would do if the situations were revered.

He finally drifted off to sleep, the strains of Sherlock's violin being played in the sitting room a plaintive cry in his ears, bemoaning his own pain and Sherlock's agony. The agony John had wrought.

* * *

><p>He wakes up the next morning with his body on fire.<p>

"Oh…._god_…" John moans, rolling onto his back, arse cheeks sliding wetly together. The bedding beneath him is soaked with his own wetness and his cock stands out from his body, rigid and pulsing and _wanting_. Without even thinking, John reaches down to touch himself, pulling at his cock in practiced tugs which usually get him off fairly quickly, especially when he's already this far along…

Except this time, it doesn't work.

The need coils tighter and tighter in his body, without any release and John realizes, belatedly, that he's in heat.

But that's not right, his brain faintly protests, through the fog of arousal. He's pregnant. He shouldn't be in heat-

John groans. Of course. Omegas frequently experience faux heats: false heats during their pregnancies. It's not a real heat, of course. The whole purpose and aim of a heat is to impregnate the Omega, and once they're impregnated, there's no longer a biological need for their bodies to experience heat. Once they're pregnant, however, their hormones are out of control and can sometimes reach peak levels which resemble a heat…and then…

John's thought process derails as his arousal sudden crests, tightening his lower muscles and leaving him gasping and aching, reaching for an orgasm he mentally knows he won't be able to have…but can't physically keep his body from striving to attain.

Once the spasm is over and he's left panting and shaking, arousal a fiery need rampaging through his body, John knows what he needs to do. This heat, false as it is, won't be satisfied by a quick wank.

He doesn't want to call Sherlock, though. Not after the way he behaved last night. John had said inexcusable things. Unpardonable. He'd hurt Sherlock. The last thing he wants to do is call him and ask Sherlock to assist him through a heat. He recoils at the very thought.

John can deal with this himself. It's just a heat. Not even a real one at that. He doesn't need to bother Sherlock with it.

On shaky legs, he crosses the room. He's incredibly wet and the sticky, clear liquid slides down his legs, dripping onto his feet and all over the carpet in a resemblance of a disgusting snail trail. John makes a feeble mental note to clean it up later, hoping it won't stain. He finds his old dildo in the back of his and Sherlock's closet- thrown there the last time he and Sherlock used it and Sherlock got jealous over a piece of silicone sullying John. John spares a brief smile over the memory before the overwhelming agony of arousal storms back to the fore. Whimpering, thankful no one is in the flat to hear him, he digs out his old dildo and manages to make it back to the bed, throwing himself on the mattress with relief.

He strokes his cock as he artlessly lifts his hips and inserts the dildo into his arse. It slides in all the way to the hilt before he can stop it, his passage slick and open and ready to be filled, dilated obscenely. John gasps, spine bowing, and humps down onto the silicone toy, trapping it between his body and the mattress and starting a quick grind. He's beyond shame. Beyond caring. Most times, he would care about what's he doing and what it means- but this heat, fake and hormonally induced as it is- is so intense he can't have the rationality to care. To even think. All he's concerned about is getting himself off. Getting relief.

Orgasm builds in his gut, blossoms through his lower extremities, sets the hair on his head on end, builds…and builds…and builds….then…

Nothing.

There's no tipping over the edge. No pleasure. No release. Just the seemingly limitless slog towards that which stubbornly remains frustratingly out of reach.

John whines, uninhibited, and strokes himself faster, working his hips and fucking himself on the dildo. He knows it's useless. He's been here so many times before…but he can't stop himself from trying. If it's not a real heat, he recklessly, desperately, thinks, maybe it doesn't need to be assuaged through real means.

* * *

><p>Two hours of fruitless masturbation later, body thrumming in unshed arousal, cock purple and almost rubbed raw, John admits defeat. He closes his eyes, sighing gustily, unable to keep still. His heart pounds in his chest, body drenched in sweat and lubricant and pre-ejaculate. His hips keep jumping, body knowing he needs fulfillment, desperately seeking to attain it.<p>

It hurts his pride to give in and call Sherlock for help. It's shameful that he even needs help. Especially after how he treated Sherlock last night. After what he said.

He doesn't deserve for Sherlock to come to him after the way he treated him. John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock didn't come back and left him to his own devices. Served him with his own comeuppance.

Cock throbbing urgently between his legs, John hopes he's wrong.

His hands shake as he dials Sherlock's cell, breaths labored and wheezing. He writhes on the bed, incapable of getting comfortable, to satiate the demands of his stupid body. He wants this to just _end_.

"H-hello?"

"Molly?" John frowns at the soft, unsure voice on the other end of the line. He'd expected Sherlock to answer.

"John? Oh, hi! How are you?"

Molly's chipper, without-a-care-in-the-world voice grates on John's already frayed, taut nerves. He is literally, physically in _pain_ from his heat. He doesn't have time for social niceties. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Oh." Molly's jovial tone falters in the wake of John's curt command. "W-well….he's…uhm…"

John has to determinedly stop himself from shouting at her. "Molly. Where is he?"

"He's somewhere." She laughs, gay and tinkling, and John, gritting his teeth, wants to throttle her. "I think he's in the morgue, actually."

"Please. Go. Get. Him." John doesn't care if he sounds rude. If he sounds like he's begging. He needs Sherlock. He needs his mate. Another wave of arousal pulses through his body. Slick _gushes_ from his hole and his cock gives a throb, slapping against his belly, pre-ejaculate dampening his entire abdomen, matting the hair together.

Molly picks up on his tone of voice, finally realizes something is wrong. "John? Is everything ok?"

John can hear her footsteps on the other end of the line and it sounds like she's hurrying. He could almost cry in relief. He doesn't answer. He doesn't want to have to deal with anything that isn't talking to Sherlock. Begging him to come back. Being knotted. Coming. The rest is meaningless.

"John?"

The abruptness of Sherlock's voice on the line jolts through John and he gasps with the resultant twinge in his abdomen. His body leaps, responding to his mate's voice. His hips work his arse on the dildo and more slick, both from his hole and his cock, leak out. John's mouth goes immediately dry in sheer longing.

"_Sherlock_…" His throat clicks as he tries to make more noise, too swamped with sensations to properly enunciate. It's never been this bad before, his heat. The last time it was even remotely like this was his first and even then there was respite. John honestly feels a bit fearful.

A shudder wracks him and he can't stop his hands from flying down to grip his penis and stroking it, despite the fact it's raw and puffy and painful. He keeps pulling at it, hoping this time…maybe this time…_please, god, please_….

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock sounds concerned. John can hear him dragging on his coat, the familiar ruffling noise around the speaker of the phone as he slides it around his shoulders. It's the best sound in the world. It means Sherlock is coming back.

"I…I hate to bother you…" John says feebly, licking dry lips and rallying himself with a tremendous force of will, a last ditch effort at regaining control of himself. He takes his hand away from his cock, wincing at the twinge of pain which is quickly blotted out by heat. "If…if you're b-busy…"

"What's going on?"

"It's…my…m-my heat."

There's a noticeable pause while Sherlock processes this. John thinks it may be his imagination that he hears Sherlock's breathing hitch.

"But you're…You shouldn't be having a heat. Not _now_."

"They're c-common during an Omega's…during p-pregnancy. Short. Quick." _Painful_. John doesn't ever remember a heat being so acute. He rolls onto his side and, reaching a hand back, starts fucking himself with the dildo. He doesn't even care if Sherlock can deduce what he's doing. He just needs for this to be over. Please. "W-w-will you please come?"

"I'm on my way. 221 Baker Street and there's a few extra quid in it for you if you make it in under ten minutes." John hears Sherlock tersely tell the cabbie- he assumes- and there's the sudden sound of tires screeching. "I'll be there soon." Sherlock promises, voice in control and confident.

"Thank you." John breathes, fervent and grateful Sherlock isn't leaving him to do this on his own. He thinks he would go mad.

"You don't need to thank me, John. I…I always come for you." Sherlock says and John clutches the phone tighter, wondering what he ever did to deserve this man. "I'll be there soon."

John nods, realizes Sherlock can't see him, and manages to croak out an "Ok." Before ending the call.

* * *

><p>John only just manages to tug the dildo from his arse when he hears Sherlock running up the stairs. He tosses it to the side, moaning at the loss of it filling him up, shame only a faint beat at the edges of his periphery as Sherlock opens the door, a tornado of curly hair and dark wool. His eyes dart over John's body, splayed out naked on the damp sheets, doubtlessly reading what's taken place, what John's been doing in the past few hours.<p>

John, uncharacteristically, has no shame about it.

"I can't wait." He snaps, voice sounding demanding in his haste to end his suffering. "Please." He amends, when Sherlock's eyes flit to his face, clearly reading his desperation and yet doesn't move. "I can't…please…it…it hurts." Christ, it does. Arousal should be fun. A bit of a flirt. Instead, this arousal is shackles wrapped around John's body, tugging him down. Debasing him. He doesn't feel like himself. He's out of his mind. Out of control. He can't stop it. Can't control it.

"Sherlock…please." John can't breathe from the want. He's shaking all over. "It hurts.

Sherlock still hesitates and later, John will think about why. Why his Alpha, who usually melts into him and follows each and every order his gives, is suddenly reluctant. But at the moment, he can't think of that. His mind simply won't allow it.

"I need you, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't even manage to get his clothes off. As soon as he's close enough, John grasps at him, tugging him down onto the bed. They collapse together in a pile of limbs, John rutting against Sherlock's body, rubbing his painful cock against the wool leg of Sherlock's trousers, and pressing kisses against Sherlock's face where hectic spots of color are riding high on his cheeks. John keens when Sherlock's hand reaches behind him, probing at where John's slick and _open_ and this time he knows he's not imagining it: Sherlock's breath catches, his body sagging briefly heavier onto John's.

"Oh, god." Sherlock breathes and John starts ripping at his clothes, trying to disrobe him. Sherlock isn't much help and John is just starting to get frustrated when Sherlock surges into action. He presses his trousers and pants down past his hips to free his erection and then, without preamble, he's turning John around. Onto his hands and knees. Gripping his hips in each of his hands. Pressing into him.

It's rough and quick. John barely has time to catch his breath as Sherlock thrusts into him. They've rarely done it like this before, if ever. John can't remember if they have or not. All he can think about is Sherlock pounding into him, his cock filling and stretching him perfectly. All he can do is hold into the bed, gripping fistfuls of the sheets in his hands, and go along for the ride.

It's exhilarating.

It's frightening.

"Sherlock, please!" John begs, hardly knowing what he's begging for, what else he needs. There's something missing. It nags at the back of his mind. A dread that settles at the bottom of his spine and prods him over and over. "Sherlock- please!"

Sherlock jams his forehead against John's shoulder, breaths labored, his hips moving ceaselessly, driving them both relentlessly towards orgasm.

But still. It's not complete. John needs…he needs….

_Oh_!

"Sherlock…b-bite me." John's body rocks backwards and forwards with the momentum of each of Sherlock's coarse thrusts. His knot is starting to catch on John's rim, John's abundance of lubricant making it ridiculously easy to slide inside when the time comes. And it is coming. It's getting closer and closer. John can tell. Sherlock's thrusts are speeding up, being more and more erratic. He's coughing out moans as if he's dying, sweat slicking between their bodies, John's cock bouncing and slapping against his stomach with each movement.

But still John needs. He needs the bite from his Alpha to ground him. To complete the circuit. After what he'd said the previous night, he wants- needs- craves definitive proof of their bond.

"Sherlock!...please? Please…please, will you?"

It feels as if he'll die without it. He will. He knows he will. He needs it.

"Please..._please_...please..." John chants breathlessly with every drive of Sherlock's hips. Behind him, Sherlock whimpers. "Please…please…Sher…lock, bite me. I need it. I need it. Please…please…please…!"

John's voice cuts off when Sherlock, without saying a word, presses a firm hand over John's mouth, muffling his pleas. John sobs, body twisting, lifting his hips up so Sherlock can more easily slide inside while trying to throw his hand off. Doesn't Sherlock understand? He needs Sherlock to understand. This isn't a whim. It's a necessity.

John's voice is muffled against Sherlock's palm, begging represented as an ineffectual damp breath against Sherlock's hand. John heaves his body, tilting his head to the side, baring his neck. Wordlessly offering himself to Sherlock. Hoping he understands. Wanting him to take the opportunity.

Sherlock doesn't.

John gasps at the swell of Sherlock's knot being shoved inside him, screaming against Sherlock's hand. His orgasm, after being repressed for hours, is barely even remotely pleasurable anymore. It hurts, as sharp as a lance piercing through his flesh. Muscles contract. His skin prickles. His rubbed raw cock pulses out watery ejaculate in steady squirts. John knows he's shouting, body bucking. Sherlock holds him through it all, shushing him, a warm, steady presence at his back. Unwavering. Strong while John helplessly breaks into tiny pieces.

When it's over, John's trembling and there are tears on his face. He feels unmade. Annihilated. Rejected.

It's silent in the room except for their combined panted breaths. As soon as Sherlock's knot deflates, he swiftly pulls out of John and flees the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

><p>John eventually manages to get himself together. He cleans up his and Sherlock's combined mess, studiously wiping away Sherlock's semen from his skin instead of smearing it all over himself as he wants to do. His heat is mercifully over. False heats are always like that. John has counseled other Omegas about them before, warned them they could occur, but he'd never realized. He shudders.<p>

He pulls on his pajamas and shuffles into the kitchen, prepared for Sherlock's scorn. His wrath and cutting remarks. He's ready to brazen it all out.

He's not prepared to see Sherlock sitting in his armchair, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains, eyes unfocused, looking pale but resolute. The tension John's walked into is thick, laying heavy between them. It seems to take extra effort to move his limbs. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, the events of the previous evening suddenly crashing down on him. He needs to say something. He needs to try and fix this.

"That was…um…Well….Thanks." He says awkwardly. Sherlock doesn't look at him. Doesn't so much as twitch. Alarm bells sound loud in John's head.

"I couldn't do it."

John frowns at Sherlock's softly spoken statement. "Do what?"

"Bite you. Like you asked. I couldn't. I knew you'd hate me afterward."

John rocks back on his heels, thrown. "_Hate_ you? ...Sherlock, I _asked_ you to-"

"You say that but you always do." Sherlock cut him off, voice strangely toneless. No accusation or anger. Just dully stating the facts. "You ask me to do these things, but you always hate me afterward."

John can't believe what he's hearing. "What are you on about?"

"Whenever there is intimacy of any kind between the two of us which involves something you perceive as yourself behaving in an overtly Omega way, you always pull away." Sherlock responded, his voice in full deduction mode, utterly matter-of-fact and not harboring any of the emotions that had to be underlying his pronouncements as he ripped John apart. "You invariably reject me. Somehow blaming me for what's happened. After your heats, for example. You abandon me for days afterward, until you've scrubbed every surface of the flat and yourself almost raw, cleansing yourself of what's happened between us. Of the evidence of your gender. The few times I've been allowed to mark you, always at your behest, John, you reject me for days or weeks, until the mark heals."

There's so many things wrong with those statement John doesn't know where to begin. He can do nothing but shake his head, unsuccessfully trying to form a counter argument. "Sherlock-"

"You hate me for being an Alpha."

The words fall like unexploded bombs into the room. Tangible. Deadly. John swallows heavily, an iron band wrapping around his chest. "I don't…"

"You do." Sherlock contradicts, softly, but he may as well have shouted it. Ringing silence followed in his pronouncement's wake. "I sometimes think it would be easier for the two of us to be together if I were a Beta. Or perhaps another Omega. Even then, I feel your utter hatred of Omegas and yourself would drive a wedge between us."

John wants to stop Sherlock from talking. He wants to childishly put his hands over his ears and walk away. He doesn't want to hear any of this. He's getting angry, heart beating wildly in his chest, jaw clenching. Sherlock's wrong. He's wrong about all of it and he needs to be quiet about things he doesn't understand.

"I can't change who or what I am, though, John. For you, I would. I would do anything." Sherlock continues, voice wavering, avoiding looking at John, eyes off and to the side. "This last year…I've tried to be what you need. What I thought you wanted. What _you_ think you want….But at every turn I fall short. I fail. I can't…I can't change my nature. I can control it- I'm not an animal driven by my lusts...but I still crave..." Sherlock breaks off, face a mask of pain before he steadies himself. "I'm punished for being what I am. For being an Alpha."

"You're not…Sherlock, that's ridiculous." John stutters and finally Sherlock looks at him, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is." John struggles, gesturing aimlessly at Sherlock. "I don't…I'd never hate you. I love…I love you. You know that."

Sherlock hums vaguely, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "All evidence thus far begs to differ."

"You don't think I love you?" John scoffs, sounding harsh and mean even to his own ears…while inwardly tight, horrible bands are wrapping around his midsection. Compressing. Squeezing. This is why Sherlock refused to bite him during his false heat. Why he hesitated before giving in to John's requests. It's rejection.

"I think you hate yourself and what you are more than you love me."

It's a direct hit. John forces himself to snort derisively. "You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"You've got it _all_ wrong." John hisses. He wants to lash out, put on the defensive and hating the way this feels. He doesn't like it when Sherlock deduces him and even though he knows this- what Sherlock is saying- is all rubbish, he doesn't like being accused. And it frustrates him that his mind can't even marshal a passable resistance. "I don't hate you. And I do love you. And I don't hate myself. All right? I hate being treated like a second-class citizen. Just because I'm Omega. Treated like all I'm good for is taking a knot and making babies. That I'm worthless outside of that."

Sherlock looks stricken, his face drained of color. "Have I made you feel that way?"

"No- God, _no_! Of course you haven't!" John knows better. Sherlock would never treat him that way. Yes, he's rather brash when it comes to The Work, and there've been a few times he called John an idiot, but he's never derided John because of his gender. It's something John knows Sherlock would never do.

"Would it perhaps be better if we weren't bonded?" Sherlock asks delicately, obviously trying to at least pretend to be impartial. "Would you be able to accept things better, this situation, if you didn't feel tied down to me? I would still help you with your heats, John. If that's something you're worried about."

"You said…" John stops, trying to get control of himself before starting again. "You said you didn't want to break out bond."

"I know that I'm rather…_convenient_ for you." Sherlock glances away, face impassive, and John wants to cross the room, pull him into his arms, and shake him, kiss him and promise Sherlock that no, he's not _convenient_. He's John's _life_. "You've had bad experiences with Alphas in the past and I know I'm…different. That I'm not like they were. I don't treat you as they did. I hope I haven't deluded myself and that…you have…_enjoyed_ our times together?"

"Of course, I have, Sherlock-"

"I would still help you, John." Sherlock says steadily, holding John's eyes and he's unable to look away. "If you feel breaking our bond is the best solution. I'll do it. Whatever you need." He shifts, shrugging his shoulders, hands spreading out atop his thighs, steady as a rock. "We can't carry on in the way we've been doing."

John nods, not knowing what he's agreeing to, and Sherlock stands, tugging his suit down and straightening the cuffs.

"I'm going away for a few days." He says and panic flares to life, as potent as a wildfire. John can't breathe. Sherlock's leaving him.

"Where?" He manages to force out through numb lips, a gnawing of unease starting in the bottom of his stomach.

"Mycroft. He…has a case for me in Scotland. He's been pestering me for ages to accept it. It's at least a 7. I thought I would go and…investigate it for him."

Sherlock never works for his brother. Never. It's a ruse. They both know he's lying.

"Right." John nods. "Right. Well. You're going…by yourself." You don't want me to go with you. It wasn't a question.

"I believe I'll be able to handle this one on my own." Sherlock neatly sidesteps the question, which is telling in and of itself. "There's no need to drag you from the comforts of London." He offers John a wan smile that John finds he can't return.

"Right. Understandable." John fidgets, the gnawing in the bottom of his stomach getting worse. "When are you going?"

"I was waiting to make certain you were better before I left. The heat's…over?"

"Yeah." John smiles and it feels wrong and stupid on his face but he can't seem to stop. "I'm fine. It's all sorted. Fit as a fiddle."

Sherlock hesitates- John hopes he's changed his mind- before he nods once, then brushes past John, footsteps fading down the stairs and out the front door.

* * *

><p>The black car rolls to a stop and it's only after the barest of pauses before Sherlock opens the door and climbs inside. That, in itself, lets Mycroft know had bad the situation truly is.<p>

"You said the case was a three, by whatever imbecilic scale you use to measure such things." He states baldly. "Why the interest in it now?"

"I've changed my mind." Sherlock replies curtly, obviously not in the mood for conversation. Mycroft watches his brother watch London flash past as they make their way to the train station. He feels moved in a way he normally doesn't: to give emotionally helpful, mollifying advice to his little brother.

"Perhaps a few days away from each other will do you and John both some good. After such a life-changing event, it's quite common for couples to-"

Sherlock sighs dramatically, closing his eyes and resting his head against the seat. "Are you going to insist on talking the _entire way_ to the station? If we're discussing life choices, why not start at home? You do realize you've probably done permanent damage to your body with those suppression pills."

Mycroft disapprovingly presses his lips together, giving Sherlock a reproachful look, but Sherlock's point has been made and he falls silent.


End file.
